


The Average Lady Experience

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Costume Kink, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Don't Get Attached to Aziraphale's Pronouns We're Changing Them, F/M, Oral Sex, Other, Rococo Fashion, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: "Oh." Crowley blinked. "So, that was you dressing down."After the Bastille rescue, Crowley finds out that Aziraphale really likes Rococo fashion. So, he gets him to try one of the dresses.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 297





	The Average Lady Experience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KitschyBitsch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitschyBitsch/gifts).



> this is a gift for my girlfriend Adia (KitschyBitsch)! I love you so much, and also Merry Christmas! (Also, bro, i know Crowley's not naked, and I'm so sorry, but I hope you like it anyway!) Everyone else is also invited to enjoy this!

“Oh.” Crowley blinked. “So, that was you dressing down.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried with delight. He looked positively garish: lace and ruffles everywhere, and all of it embroidered in gold. His low-heeled, buckled shoes actually _sparkled_ as he moved around the bookshop counter to greet him. “How wonderful to see you!” He stopped an appropriate distance away, clapping his manicured hands in front of his satin waistcoat, absolutely radiating cheer. “What’s all this about dressing down?” 

“In the Bastille,” Crowley said, stepping by him and into the shop to trace the spines of the books because Aziraphale always got so flustered when Crowley touched his things. “That was your informal wear.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, only half listening as Crowley picked up a random novel, pretended to look it over, and then put it back in the wrong place. “Despite what you may think, I’m not a complete ninny. I wore my most humble attire! Unfortunately,” Aziraphale trailed off. 

“Wasn’t humble enough. I get it. I’m surprised you don’t powder your face. Draw on little beauty marks. Rouge your cheeks.” 

Aziraphale puffed up under the attention, a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Crowley, I’m not some libertine! I’m a respectable business owner!” 

“I’ve never seen a bookseller dress like you,” Crowley pointed out.

“Oh, I’d better not catch you with any other booksellers!” Aziraphale wagged a finger at him, but he was smiling. “Especially when I know you don’t read.” Crowley snorted, and Aziraphale swapped the open sign to closed. “Is this a professional call, or can I interest you in a drink? I have a nice little red in the back, Château La-something; we can check the label.”

“Sounds perfect,” Crowley said, and he threw himself over Aziraphale’s couch, looking dashing and dark and handsome, or so he hoped. 

Later that evening, after opening a second bottle of Château La-something and pouring them both a third glass, Aziraphale sighed heavily. It was clear that if Crowley hadn’t already claimed the couch, he might have swooned there. 

“It’s a tragedy, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “An absolute travesty! I can already see them going out of fashion: the clothes. Everyone’s becoming so subdued again.” 

“Yes, well, the revolution,” Crowley hummed, and then amended: “The revolutions.” 

“Yes, I know,” Aziraphale mourned. “How sad it all is. I had rather hoped—well.” He waved his hand, brushing the thought aside.

“No, tell me.” Crowley pushed up, sensing desire. “What had you wanted?” 

There was a moment’s pause. “The gowns are so lovely,” Aziraphale said delicately. 

“Angel, have you never worn one?” Crowley wasn’t sure if he could believe that. Although, he supposed, Aziraphale didn’t usually play with his corporation like that, not having the patience or grace to put up with being a woman in society. Aziraphale was flushed down his neck. “What’s fashionable at the time has never really stopped you before,” Crowley pointed out. “And I’m sure there’s a least one decent dressmaker who could make what you want.” 

“It was just a silly, passing thought,” Aziraphale larked, overly and unconvincingly light. “Pay me no mind, dear boy. My, but isn’t this a bold, little wine?”

“What if I got the gown for you?” Crowley asked before thinking about what kind of offer he was making. “I’ve never seen you in a proper dress before,” he rationalized. “I guess I’m curious.” 

“I’m afraid your curiosity will have to go unquenched in this matter, for I shan’t entertain this nonsense any longer!” Aziraphale had a tendency to get especially stuffy when he wanted a subject dropped, although Crowley wasn’t sure why he thought it would help. Maybe he didn’t realize he was doing it. “I think plenty of things are lovely but don’t wish to wear them. This bold, little wine, for example.”

Crowley thought about Aziraphale covered in nothing but spilled wine and whether or not that was a thought worth revisiting when he was alone later. “Wine’s not clothes.”

Aziraphale harrumphed. “Well, I know wine’s not clothes! Are we still talking about this? What are we even talking about? Did you hear about the new Board of Agriculture?” 

“What if I take your next two minor blessings? On me, no questions asked. You just say ‘Here you go, Crowley,’ and off I’ll go without a fuss. Plus you’ll get a pretty, new dress.” Crowley grinned, even as Aziraphale flustered and sputtered and tried not to squawk.

“My next five,” he bartered.

“Two, and I’ll take you out for dinner after both.” He’d already been planning to do that, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know.

Aziraphale looked at him very closely and carefully. If Crowley hadn’t built up a fair amount of trust over the years, and if he hadn’t just saved Aziraphale's neck, he’d likely be judged as wanting and given the boot. “Why _do_ you care?” 

“I told you,” Crowley said, knowing that he had won, already planning on who and what he needed to make this happen. “I’m curious.”

* * *

On the day they’d agreed upon, Aziraphale arrived promptly at Crowley’s Mayfair residence, because his bookshop was much too small for what Crowley had planned. Aziraphale was wearing his usual, gaudy menswear and a blush that seemed to extend far past his cravat. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and because he couldn’t help it, he said it a little lower than he should have. He himself had dressed for the occasion: a narrow double-breasted coat, tight breeches, and even silk stockings. Those were pulled snug on his calves, and worn without his usual boots to hide them but leather shoes, with the heel and the buckle and everything. Aziraphale stepped through the doorway and seemed to look at everything but him. 

“That’s a rather severe portrait,” he intoned, indicating something Crowley had commissioned some 20 years ago. He’d always thought he looked handsome in it.

“You don’t like it?” His stomach flipped.

“I didn’t say that.” Aziraphale passed by him, deeper into the salon. 

“Well, I didn’t invite you over to talk about art,” he groused. He shoved a folded, cotton chemise at Aziraphale. “You can change into this upstairs, in the guest rooms. I’ll send Aimee up in a few minutes to help you with the rest.” 

Aziraphale stared at the thin shift, dumbfounded. He finally blinked and asked, “Aimee?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, she’s got the experience. She worked for some lady before she,” Crowley made the universal gesture for ‘got taken out by the big, indiscriminate killing machine.’ 

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. I’ll dress myself,” Aziraphale stated. 

“Outside of the social fact that doesn't dress herself,” Crowley explained slowly, “There is also the slight issue that it’s impossible to put all of that on without help. It's not the most flexible stuff.” 

He watched Aziraphale hesitate. He watched him think it over. If Aziraphale asked him, he would send Aimee away and help Aziraphale himself. It wouldn't be a problem, because he knew how to do it. He’d lace his stay perfectly tight. He'd pin on the stomacher slowly and with care. He'd powder his face and do up his hair and rouge his mouth. He'd kneel before him and buckle his shoes. All Aziraphale had to do was ask, and Crowley would happily serve him.

“Do you…” Aziraphale started, and Crowley held his breath, want bursting in his chest. “Should I change into something more appropriate? I mean,” Aziraphale blushed, looking away. “Aimee expects that I’m a lady, does she not?” 

“I really don't think you’re going to offend her sensibilities,” Crowley said, also looking away although it was easier for him with the dark glasses. He tried not to feel too put out, because he was already getting a treat today. There was no reason to get greedy. “Although, if you want her to do your hair, you'll have to grow it out” he said.

“Can’t I wear a wig?” Aziraphale held the shift close to himself, looking a bit wobbly against all of this information. 

Crowley wrinkled his nose. Had Aziraphale really never noticed what ladies did with their hair when he was in court? “Ladies don’t usually wear wigs, angel. Aimee can walk you through it all, but that’s not really a thing unless you’re going to a costumed event. Although, I suppose—” Crowley thought about where he might get one of those truly preposterous wigs at this hour. 

“Never mind it. I’m here for The Average Lady Experience, after all.” And he said it in such a way that made it clear Aziraphale had been framing the whole situation in those terms: an experiment of what it might be like to be a simple, lavish, average lady of the court. Crowley didn’t even try to hide his smile. Aziraphale turned on his heel and stomped off toward where the guest room was—although he’d never been to Crowley’s residence before and, without a guide, could’ve ended up anywhere. 

Aimee was eating a small meal in the back kitchen, and Crowley told her that Madame would be ready once Aimee finished her lunch. Then, he went back to the salon to putter around and drink and wait.

* * *

It took forever. Crowley hadn’t expected to get through three tumblers of whiskey, especially at his forced slow pace. He’d _known_ it was supposed to take a long time, but this was ridiculous. 

Aimee came down, ever the picture of composure. “Madame is ready,” she said in French. “But she wasn’t in her own rooms when I found her.” 

“Where was she?” Crowley asked, already having an inkling. 

“Yours.” 

“Ah, yes. Quite like Madame.” Crowley croaked. He then paid Aimee generously and dismissed her, sobering up and walking up the stairs to meet the Lady Aziraphale. 

The first thing Crowley noticed was that Aziraphale had, in fact, changed her corporation. 

Her face looked even more feminine, although that could have been the makeup. Her hair had been piled and powdered blue-gray, with white and gold ribbons fastened amidst the curls. Around her neck was a plain, white silk choker. And her breasts—her _breasts_ —were pushed tightly up, trembling lightly, and pink. The square neckline was trimmed with a delicate, white lace—and this lace was also found on the frilled sleeves over the gown. 

Her back was forced tall and straight, and her waist was thick and conical. It was the kind of waist that one might enjoy circling their hands around, to test the smoothness, to see if they could catch a flutter of the stomach beneath. 

As Crowley had requested, the gently arched pannier was absurdly wide, flaring the skirt out a few feet. Crowley moved to inspect it from behind, eyeing the gown's elegant sack panel on the back and its long and delicate trail. From this large expanse of fabric, he could best see the pattern: a sky blue base with pink-red roses, all embroidered with gold. 

“Well?” Aziraphale warbled, and then cleared her throat. “Curiosity satisfied?” 

Crowley pulled around the front of her again, and checked her face, her overly red cheeks and mouth, the drawn on beauty mark in the shape of a heart on her cheek. She looked nervous, like Crowley was about to tease her. And, yeah, teasing her was part of the plan, but not to make her actually upset. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“This skirt is preposterous,” Aziraphale sniffed. “And while it might not be a wig, my hair is more fake than real. Aimee stuck me with a pin while putting on my chest panel, which made me awful and skittish for the rest of the dressing, and I snapped at her which I feel awful about. And I can’t even see my shoes.” She inclined her head down and kicked one completely concealed foot up to prove her point. 

“You look like a thoroughly average lady, though,” Crowley said, trying to cheer her up.

Aziraphale turned icy. “Oh, I see.” She stepped away some, unable to move far quickly. “Average.” 

Crowley choked. “No, I mean. You look even better than average! You look—” Crowley didn’t want to say anything sappy, so he trailed off. Aziraphale withered a look at him. 

“I think this has been enough.” Aziraphale stepped past Crowley with a bit more speed. “I’ll call Aimee back and have her undo me and—oh!” Aziraphale’s shoulders shot up and she stopped right in her tracks. 

“What?” Crowley hopped to her side. “What is it?” 

“My _stocking_ fell down,” she nearly whispered. It must have tickled against her thigh as it went, because she looked perturbed by what Crowley considered to be a very minor thing. She leaned over, clearly wanting to right it like she always would, and then she huffed. “This—blasted—bit of wood in my stay! I can’t bend forward!” 

“It’s a busk,” Crowley said, because he didn’t know what else to say. 

“It’s terrible,” Aziraphale moaned.

“Here, I’ll get your stocking.” Crowley was already kneeling before he finished speaking, hiking up the front of Aziraphale’s skirts to slip his front half under. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shrieked, but Crowley was already there so it probably seemed a waste to call him back. The chemise reached about Aziraphale’s knee, so he pushed that up a little. One stocking was held tight in place with a ribbon garter, the other pooling around her ever-dainty ankle, the ribbon under one of her heels. 

“The shoes look perfect,” Crowley told her, taking off his glasses and putting them aside just for the moment. “They’re blue.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Aziraphale’s voice, while muffled, still carried a note of derision that made Crowley smile. “Can you just fix me up and come back out here please?” And when Crowley didn’t say anything and took his time getting the ribbon, she reminded him: “You didn’t give me any drawers to wear, so for the sake of my own modesty, please hurry!” 

“Women don’t wear knickers right now.” 

“What? Again?” Aziraphale balked. “I suppose this should be quite enough material on oneself, as long as one doesn't have a painfully slow fiend between her knees.” Crowley didn’t even need to see Aziraphale’s face to know the moment she realized what she’d said, because her own knees knocked violently together and she cried out. “You know what I mean!” 

When Crowley could ease Aziraphale’s thighs apart just a little, he pulled up the white, cotton stocking and then tied the ribbon just above the knee. Right as he was about to say something witty and charming about a job well done, there were footsteps on the stairs and then right by the door and Aziraphale hissed _hide!_ , forcing Crowley deeper between her plush thighs, the skirts readjusted to cover Crowley’s feet. 

There was a knock on the door and Crowley, his nose inelegantly pressed against Aziraphale’s soft upper, inner thigh, tried not to breath. He didn’t even have to, so he wasn’t sure why it felt so difficult in that position.

“Enter,” Aziraphale said, after clearing her throat.

“Sorry, Madame,” Aimee said in accented English. “I forgot my comb.” 

“Oh, yes, of course.” The words were as gracious as they could be.

“Where is Mr. Crowley?” Aimee asked.

“Oh, he… He went to his own rooms, just for a moment.” Crowley exhaled against Aziraphale’s skin, because that was hardly better than _he’s wedged between my thighs, underneath my petticoat_. At the breath, Aziraphale let out an exhale of her own, her knees clamping around him. 

Aimee, poised as ever, said nothing about Aziraphale’s mistruth. “Sorry to disturb, Madame,” she said on her way out.

“Not at all!” Aziraphale said with forced easiness. Crowley, trying to reposition minutely, brushed his nose in a short line up Aziraphale’s thigh. “Hah,” she said, stamping her foot.

“Madame?”

“Oh, it's only that I’m—I’m so dreadfully sorry for shouting at you earlier.” Crowley snorted a silent laugh, and Aziraphale squirmed.

Aimee was slow to respond. “That’s all right, Madame.”

“Oh, good! Toodle-loo!” 

The door was shut without another word. Crowley took a slow inhale, in relief and also out of a desire to know what Aziraphale smelled like under everything. 

“Oh, honestly, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, batting lightly at him through her gown. 

“Hey, angel,” Crowley called, feeling emboldened because he was already down there. 

Aziraphale shuddered like she knew what he was about to say. “Yes?”

Crowley brought one hand to cup the backside of Aziraphale’s knee, letting his fingers trail up what he now knew to be very sensitive thighs. “Maybe I should stay down here. In case your stocking falls again?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “Yes,” she finally said. “Yes, maybe you ought to—”

But the rest didn’t quite matter because Crowley was muscling her thighs a little further apart, hitching her shift even higher. In the dark, Crowley’s eyes were able to see the soft, white pubic curls decorating her queint. He nosed at the front, at her center, where her body creased and folded, and then he lapped there. Crowley brought his free thumb up to lightly tug Aziraphale open and kiss upwards at her quim, sucking on her swollen, fat clitoris and then lapping even deeper, all while Aziraphale’s knees shook and she sighed and moaned.

“Oh, that feels—” she managed out, and then: “Dear, could you—your fingers?”

Crowley hummed, which made Aziraphale’s hips wriggle and her foot stamp, and he stopped thumbing her open to instead slide a couple fingers through the slick and then inside of her, one digit crooking snugly within and, after a moment, a second joining. 

“ _Ohhh_.” Aziraphale’s legs were trembling violently, jerking with each pull Crowley sucked against her clit. Crowley wasn’t aware this was any kind of problem—in fact, he thought all of that was ideal, until Aziraphale’s orgasm started to dawn and her knees began to give out. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called, maybe because she was coming but also maybe because she was toppling over, Crowley not thinking fast enough to support her or even just cushion her fall. So, while her legs were quivering and her pussy was pulsing, Aziraphale was bumping her head and groaning, now flat on her back against the hardwood.

Crowley, as quickly as he could, surfaced from underneath all of the skirts and pushed up to check on her. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice sounding rawer than he’d meant for her to hear. 

Aziraphale blinked at him, her eyes spectacularly blue against all of the white powder and red rouge. Then she started to laugh. 

“You’re concussed.” Crowley scooted up higher to check her eyes.

“No,” Aziraphale managed out through giggle. “I just feel very silly, and I can’t even sit up.” She attempted to and then laughed again. “This wretched busk. I’m afraid I’m very much immobilized.” Still her hand came up and she cupped Crowley’s cheek. Her thumb swept over his slick-messy mouth, reminding him how he must have looked and making him flush. With her eyes half-lidded, she wet her own plush mouth, parting her lips. 

Settling atop her, Crowley kissed Aziraphale, lightly and chastely, and then she kissed him with tongue and teeth and a sense of frantic starvation. 

“You haven’t finished,” she said against his lips. Crowley could feel her knees parting around him, but he couldn’t really process it because her lipstick had smeared red and vibrant down her mouth and chin. When he kissed her throat, her breast, he left red marks behind and realized that he was wearing her rouge as well. 

Nevertheless, she squirmed under him, pressing her hips up. 

“You sure?” he asked, not yet reaching for the front of his breeches, to where his cock ached terribly. But she said an almost angry yes, and Crowley freed himself. She strained her neck to look but couldn’t quite see and collapsed back with a grumble. Crowley grinned and he had to bite his inner cheek to keep from doing it too much. “I’ll let you look as much as you like, later,” he promised, and she glowed, seeming very much contented with the idea. 

With her skirts pooled around her waist, Crowley got a perfect view of her chubby thighs and wet, velvety cunt. He touched her there, with the pads of his fingers, until she was gasping and moaning and dripping slick. 

When he settled over her when he pushed in, she closed her eyes, and he took that to mean he could watch her face very closely. He was practically lying on top of her, his chest against her breasts—which _heaved_ , like in some sort of cheap smut. His arms came around her, holding her as he started to work his cock in, slowly and then a little faster, as he watched to see what she liked.

“Crowley,” she said, opening her eyes and then cutting off, surprised that he was so close. Crowley drew back, deeply embarrassed, but she got her hands in his long hair and tugged him back down, to her mouth, to share more of her lipstick. Kissing her, he had no chance of lasting long, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that they might do this again, after he let Aziraphale look her fill.

“Spill inside,” she whispered, breaking the kiss to breathe into his now burning ear. He made some wrecked, unintelligible noise, which only made her laugh, low and throaty, and clench down.

“Oh fuck,” Crowley garbled, his hips pumping erratically. 

“Lick it out of me,” she said, sounding so very reasonable and so very warm that he couldn’t help but come right then. 

“You are a menace,” he said as she pushed at his shoulders. “A terror,” he went on, helping her hook her leg over his shoulder.

“Come now, darling,” she said, his face pressing against her. “You can’t leave a lady messy.”

* * *

It was only when Crowley had finally helped Aziraphale ease the busk out of her stay and was starting to unpin her that he told her she’d accidentally wandered into his rooms.

Aziraphale looked around, her teased, blue-gray hair a complete mess. “Oh, I knew that,” she decided.

“No, you did not. Or you would have told Aimee something different.” 

“Aimee!” Aziraphale groaned, just now remembering. “Curses,” she swore.

Crowley gaped. “Angel!” She frowned at him, so he leaned in to kiss her until she stopped. “Next time, I’ll be your handmaid. How about that?” 

Aziraphale flushed at the idea. “Yes,” she croaked. “That sounds acceptable.” 

“I’m so glad I’m _acceptable_.”

“Oh, you wicked—” and Aziraphale pulled him forward by his jacket to kiss him once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone like this, but I hope Adia likes it the most! :U


End file.
